Chapter One

13th Precinct. Midtown Manhattan

Detective Chuck Hollis's dark brows shot upwards as his deep train of thought suddenly derailed. The white blur of a folded paper plane sailed into his line of vision. It struck him in the chin before falling to his desk. He peered up from his papers to find his partner, Randy Wilkins, rising from behind his desk and snatching his coat from his chair.

"What?"

"We gotta go, Chuck." Randy was already heading for the door.

"Are you kidding me? It's freezing out there!"

"Adillo was just identified as the shooter in last night's robbery. We got a location on him."

"Adillo? Son of a bitch! What does this make, huh? The second or third time he's gotten out of jail free?" Chuck climbed out of his chair, covering his long-sleeved t-shirt and shoulder harness firearm with his brown tweed jacket. It belonged with a pair of dress pants, but he had grabbed it by mistake as he left his apartment that morning. He knew, as he shrugged it on, it would not prevent him from freezing his ass off.

The two headed for their car. Wilkins, as usual, drove, giving his partner time to light up.

"You know," Randy began as he started the engine and pulled out into the street, "When I joined the force, I did it to help people. Now, all I want to do is live to see retirement."

The 42-year-old Chuck agreed. "I know what you mean. You got a lot longer than I do. Odds say I'll make it. If I don't quit first."

"Not you! Not the hero!"

"Cut the crap."

"You are a hero, my friend!"

"Yeah? Well, tell that to the store owner lying in his own body fluids."

"Look Chuck, you got Adillo. What happened after that was not your fault. Between the lawyer pleading him down and the judge going along with it, hell, he was bound to get off with hardly any time. We put them in and the lawyers get their raggedy asses out. But, you got him."

"Don't mean shit tonight." Chuck stared out into the freezing rain. The night felt sleazy, the city seemed to ooze and belch nastiness, making the falling white snow just a part of the gray slush once it hit the streets. From pure to poisoned. Chuck continued to stare out into the shiny slick streets, thinking of his small apartment and the puny little Christmas tree waiting to welcome the hero home. No family, no pets, just a bottle of Jack Daniels and a half a carton of Chesterfields, and that poor little fake drug store tree with its strand of multi-colored lights. It was amazing how it cheered the place up. With all of the apartment lights off, he could sit back, put his feet up, listen to Dean Martin singing Christmas tunes, and for a while, almost forget that he was alone. "Did I ever tell you about Slivovitz?"

"Slivovitz," Randy tried the name out. "Was that a bust?"

"No. He was this cop from my old neighborhood. One day we were all out playing in the yard, me and my buddies, and this police cruiser pulls up across the street. Well, this little old lady lived there and her cat had gotten up a tree and she was having a damn fit. Well, Slivovitz came waddling up, looked up the tree, and began to climb it. Me and the guys were laughing our asses off, watching this fat ass cop dragging his girth up this tree. Never occurred to us that we could have climbed up there and gotten the cat. No. We just stood there laughing at his fat ass. It was his job after all."

"What happened?"

"Well, he got the cat and he made it down. We were laughing, talking about how lame he was, hoping he would split his pants. It wasn't pretty, but he made it down."

"Good for him."

"Anyway, we were laughing and shit, and he hands that cat to that old lady and the look on her face, man. I'll never forget it. She had tears streaming down her cheeks, hugging her damn cat. It was pissed. It wanted down. Then she hugged Slivovitz. And it hit me. I mean, he could have fallen out of that damn tree and broken his damn neck. But, he climbed up anyway. He did it and he made a difference in that old lady's life. And I never forgot the look on that little old lady's face. You would have thought he was Superman, you know? He was a hero that day, and we laughed at him. He retired a week after I joined."

"Wow. Break out the tissue box, will ya?"

"Screw you."

"What made you think of Slivovitz?"

"I don't know. He made a difference that day."

"I thought maybe you wanted to go join the ASPCA or something."

"Nah. Hell no. I was just thinking."

"Reminiscing is a sure sign of old age."

"So is dreaming of retirement. What's your point?"

"Just wondering what happened to your ten year plan. You told me you were going to have it all by the time you reached forty. Family, kids..."

"You're my family."

"No, Chuck. You were going to have a wife and kids. What happened? You just give up on that dream?"

"I'll get around to it."

"I'll bet that's what you said ten years ago."

"What are you, my mother?" His gaze trained ahead towards a corner convenient store. His focus grew intense, fighting the almost blinding fluorescent red words that blinked above a small group of men, advertising cold beer. Three men stood huddled on the corner before the store. The trio looked suspicious, but tonight, only one held any interest for him. "Hey, over there. Mr. Corn Rolls. Isn't that our guy?"

"Adillo. That's him. Another store."

"Let's get this son of a bitch."

"Again."

As Randy bounced the Crown Victoria over the small curb and onto the sidewalk, the suspect turned and fled around the corner and into the freezing night.

"Tell me he's not going down the alley. Shit!" Chuck flipped his cigarette of the window, disgusted. He did not want to be heading down a dark alley in this nasty weather, but there was nothing else he could do. Shit. He opened the car door. "I'll play Cujo. You swing around and cut him off. Go!"

Chuck barely heard the Crown Victoria as it squealed away from him. He was blasted with the frigid chill that met and swirled about him. Reaching under his thin tweed jacket, he pulled his firearm and gave chase. The alleyway became eerily quiet in its darkness, cut off from the rest of the noisy city. Keeping low, he quickened his steps, trying to still his own breathing, not wanting to give Adillo a chance to spot him by any visible huffs of breath. Too late he heard a loud clang, a cat screeched, and he saw the flash of a gun. He dove quickly, crashing onto the pavement, hearing glass shatter and the unmistakable sound of feet running past him. The smell of garbage assailed his nostrils as he rolled to his side. Bad idea, he knew immediately as he felt his torso and side being flayed from his body.

"Son of a bitch."